


Mileage Plus

by thelittlelion



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Airports, Combeferre POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlelion/pseuds/thelittlelion
Summary: Combeferre is a seriously frequent flier. Grantaire makes a habit of looking cold outside of the terminal.Misunderstandings abound.





	Mileage Plus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ldimplesl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ldimplesl/gifts).



> Enjoy!

 

“Looks like snow.”

It takes Combeferre a moment to realize the voice is talking to him and an even more embarrassingly long second before he spots the man sitting on the curb, looking up at him. He rattles off a quick goodbye to Enjolras on the phone, getting a distracted mumble from his friend in return, and faces the speaker.

“Pardon?” asks Combeferre. “Were you talking to me?”

Brown slush from the last snowfall pushes cold through the thin soles of Combeferre’s dress shoes, making standing outside the airport toe-curlingly painful. The man on the curb doesn’t seem to notice, bundled in a thick green coat and with an empty coffee cup in one hand a cigarette dangling from the other.

“You should hurry,” says the man. He has a very crooked nose and heavy eyebrows, but when he looks at Combeferre his gaze is youthful. “They’ll start playing with your flight time if the weather turns. You should get inside.”

Combeferre highly doubts that airlines ‘play’ with their flights, though he admits it often feels that way. Still, there’s no need to shoot down a man so clearly hard on his luck.

“I could say the same to you,” Combeferre says. He puts away his phone, walking a few steps closer to the man. “Do you have somewhere to go for the night? It’s cold out.”

Thick eyebrows rise. “Is that an offer?”

“If you need one,” says Combeferre. He has the contact info for at least ten homeless shelters in Paris saved in his phone. “My name is Combeferre.”

The man gives him a wry smile and shakes his hand. His fingers are like ice. “Grantaire – or R is fine. And you really should go.”

“Grantaire,” Combeferre repeats. “Are you sure you’re alright out here?”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s an airport. There’s always somewhere to go. I’m sure I’ll manage. Though I’m not so sure _you_ will, if you keep standing out here with me. Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

That isn’t good enough for Combeferre, but Grantaire is right. The giant airport clock on the wall makes it clear Combeferre needs to get going or he’ll miss his plane.

Combeferre always keeps some cash on him, reserved for people he might meet who are in need. He bends down, pushing ten euros into Grantaire’s cup.

“It was nice to meet you, Grantaire. Thank you for keeping me on time.”

Grantaire’s expression freezes, staring down at his cup in astonishment. Combeferre hates to think that he’s the only one to extend help to him. He’s glad he’d just emptied his pockets as he did.

“Take care, Grantaire,” he says, straightening back up. He hurries quickly through the airport doors, feeling a wash of warm air as he steps into the terminal, and thinks bitterly of the walls separating Grantaire from enjoying the same heat as everyone else inside.

 

*

 

New York, New York. It’s the city that never sleeps. It’s also the city whose flights never leave the airport on time.

Combeferre reaches under the bridge of his glasses, pinching at the building pressure as he stares at the departures board. _Flight 1224_ to New York shines back at him. Beside it glares the neon red notice of its cancellation

Enjolras is going to have an aneurism. _Combeferre_ is going to have an aneurism. Courfeyrac – well, Courfeyrac is likely going to curse widely for five seconds and then call up the potential donors and sweet talk their way into a later meeting, but still. Combeferre can almost feel the hair on his head withering to gray, the crick in his neck from too many late night flights morphing from an unhappy twinge to a monster whacking the temples of his skull.

He turns on his heel, carry-on squealing behind him, and marches away from the board. Already, the line from the help desk rungs thirty people deep, all of them looking exactly as disgruntled as Combeferre feels, quite a few of them American and very _loud_ in making their unhappiness clear.

Nope, he decides, swinging away. He’ll deal with getting a new ticket in a moment. If he doesn’t get coffee in his body this instant he won’t be liable for his next actions.

Speaking of drums, there’s an insistent tapping happening as Combeferre steps into the nearest McDonalds for a six-dollar airport coffee special. Combeferre does a double take as he recognizes the figure stretched out along the plastic seats, feet kicked up and fingers rapping two plastic sporks on the table.

It’s Grantaire. Not just inside of the airport, but _beyond_ the security check.

Combeferre hadn’t seen the man on his way through the terminal today though he’d looked, hoping against hope that the man had found a better situation that the one Combeferre had met him in two weeks ago.

As if sensing eyes on him, Grantaire looks up. He makes a squawking sound at the sight of Combeferre, dropping one of his sporks on the floor. He stares at Combeferre, eyes wide. Combeferre stares back.

Is Grantaire afraid Combeferre will report him? He’s clearly found some way to sneak past security. That thought alone should be alarming, but Grantaire has such panic written on his face Combeferre feels the little rebel of his college days perking up inside him.

Very deliberately, Combeferre turns away from Grantaire. He keeps his eyes fixed on the price of his ridiculously expensive coffee, even has he hears the squeal of shoes jerking off of plastic furniture and the rush of hurried feet behind him.

When he finally steps up to the counter and finishes placing his order, Grantaire is long gone.

Combeferre smiles, thinking that’s the end of it, when he spots something sitting at the table Grantaire had deserted.

It’s a carefully folded napkin and Combeferre swipes with a note of dread. There’s nothing written inside though. Not words of thank you or condemnation.

The only thing inside is one very crinkled ten-euro banknote.

 

*

 

Combeferre takes the money and shoves it deep into his pockets, along with his regrets. He waits in a very long line, speaks with a very apologetic airline ticketer, and goes back to his apartment for the night.

He does not see Grantaire on his way out of the airport, neither inside nor out.

He does not see Grantaire the next morning either, as he catches his new flight. He _does_ see a very wealthy couple in the heart of NYC who displays actual interest in the work of the Amis and he _does_ feel quite pleased with the results, even when landing back in the Charles de Gaulle Airport brings up a seed of unease.

Combeferre checks the McDonalds just to be sure, but Grantaire isn’t there.

No, instead, Combeferre finds Grantaire standing half-naked in the bathroom, running a white shirt under the tap and scrubbing it viciously with soap. His green coat is bundled on the counter too, faintly dripping murky brown slush, and Combeferre can see it’s been soaked in what looks like spit up from the road.

Grantaire’s entire body goes still when he catches sight of Combeferre in the mirror.

At least he’s on the right side of security this time.

“Grantaire,” says Combeferre. He keeps his voice light and easy. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Grantaire wears a spooked look, still staring at Combeferre wide-eyed through the mirror. He spins around, revealing a slightly hairy chest and a fair bit more muscle than Combeferre was expecting on the compact man, along with an open mouth gaping in surprise.

“Combeferre. Shit, fuck – I mean, crap. No, wait. I swear. This isn’t what it looks like!”

Combeferre’s plan not to freak Grantaire out has obviously failed. He takes a few steps further into the bathroom, glad that he’d chosen the late return flight instead of waiting until the morning. There is no one else inside but the two of them.

“It _looks_ like you got soaked by a passing car,” he says. “Are you alright?”

The startled look on Grantaire’s face resolves itself into a scowl. “You got that damn right. I was _sitting right there!_ The motherf - I mean, that _jerk_ definitely saw me. I’m not fucking – crap – I’m not _freaking_ invisible.”

“Of course you’re not,” Combeferre says at once, adamantly. Maybe too adamantly by the way Grantaire jerks back. “Are you alright?” he asks again.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire shrugs. “My clothes are ruined, but what else is new.”

Combeferre hazards a few steps closer, until he can peer into the sink where Grantaire’s shirt sits in a sopping mess. There’s no way Combeferre is letting Grantaire put that wet thing back on his body tonight. Not in the middle of winter. Not if he’s spending the night outside.

“Can I help you?” Combeferre asks. He picks up his carry-on and sets it on the counter. “I have some extra shirts in here. Some socks too. It’s too cold to go around wet or shirtless tonight.”

Grantaire scoffs. “I’m not taking your stuff.”

“You’ll freeze,” says Combeferre. “Please. For my peace of mind if nothing else.”

Grantaire stares at him for a long moment. His wide blue eyes seem at contrast to the scruff on his cheeks and the scar of a split lip beneath his nose.

“This is weird, man,” he finally says, “but thanks.”

Combeferre tries not to smile. He pops open his carry-on and slides the whole thing over to Grantaire. There’s nothing inside that can’t be replaced and that Grantaire doesn’t need more.

Grantaire is frugal. He only takes one of Combeferre’s white button downs and a pair of black socks. Combeferre bites his tongue on offering more, just gives Grantaire an encouraging nod as he goes to into a stall to get changed.

There’s a pleasant hum in his chest as he closes his carry-on; a stress he’d been carrying for a while now easing.

He’s thinking about his phone and the people he knows who might give Grantaire a bed for the night when Grantaire steps back out.

Combeferre’s white shirt clings across Grantaire’s broad chest. Combeferre inhales sharply and just about swallows his tongue. With his black jeans, it almost looks like Grantaire is dressed for a date, a thought which sends Combeferre’s thoughts careening down a _highly_ inappropriate track, the bones of which he hadn’t even known were lain in his brain.

He wants to shrug of his own coat and bury Grantaire in it, pile him with blankets and make sure he’s warm and safe.

Combeferre slams the lid down on those thoughts with a rush of heat flooding in his face.

By some luck, Grantaire doesn’t notice. He glances at himself in the mirror, picking at the tight shirt with a slight frown that goes away when he turns to Combeferre.

“Thank you. You really saved my life. Really, you don’t know what this means.”

Combeferre quickly waves his hand. “It’s nothing. Really. You look, that is, you look – ”

‘Cute!’ shouts Combeferre’s brain. Grantaire looks cute! In fact, he looks mature and slightly wet with his hair pushed back from his face, expression still disgruntled and showing it, but undeniably cute.

“Fuck, it’s late,” groans Grantaire. He’s gathering a wad of paper towels and rolling up his wet shirt from the sink, before Combeferre can get his tongue cooperate. “I’ve got to go. I really owe you for this one, Combeferre. Seriously, I won’t forget it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Combeferre, slightly daze. He watches his shirt disappear under Grantaire’s coat and had the brief inexplicable thought of disappearing with it.

“Fuck off,” shoots back Grantaire. His face blanches, ear turning red. “I mean, shut up! I’m paying you back. End of story. Get used to it.”

The bathroom door swings closed behind Grantaire with a dull thud. Combeferre releases the breath he’s been holding, eyes still fixed on the last place Grantaire had been.

Shit, he thinks. Shit, shit, shit.

 

*

 

Courfeyrac laughs and laughs and laughs at him. Enjolras’s usual frown turns very severe as he contemplates this deviation from their plan.

“Just as him out,” Courfeyrac says, when he can speak again. “Seriously, it’s been _years_ since you found someone you liked. I say take the risk.”

“Have you asked Valjean if he has room in his boarding house?” asks Enjolras. “Your friend can’t stay at the airport forever. They’ll catch on eventually.”

Combeferre ignores Courfeyrac’s advice with the careful practice of many years of friendship. He does make that call to Valjean though and shows up armed with a business card and an open bed the next time he steps foot in the airport.

It’s been a few weeks since he last had to travel. The holidays loom over the season, decking the Charles de Gaulle Airport with twinkling string lights and shiny, dangling ornaments the size of beach balls.

The local work of Les Amis always demands their full attention during the holidays as Parisian charity kicks up in time for the season of giving. In the past week, he’s seen the inventory room of their warehouse more than he has his own bed, and has been looking forward to the lull that came with the New Year when the potential New York patrons called again and decided now was the perfect time call a second meeting.

So – the airport a week before Christmas. Courfeyrac drops him off early and drives away slowly rolling down the curb, no doubt looking for Combeferre’s new friend.

Admittedly, Combeferre isn’t that subtle either. He walks the length of the sidewalk outside the terminal, dodging bunched up families and impatient business travellers. The place is a circus, the traffic so thick Combeferre nearly misses the crowd gathered to the side of the main doors.

He hears the strum of a guitar, the patter of a drum, and then, rising just above the din, a familiar voice singing.

It’s Grantaire. Somehow, it’s Grantaire. He has an open guitar case in front of him, one foot on some kind of electric percussion box, and an easy smile as he croons _Jingle Bell Rock_ to the delight of a trio of young kids wiggling in front of him.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice Combeferre standing there, even as he pushes his way towards the front of the crowd. There’s a fair bit of change, mostly coins but a few bills, in the open guitar case. Combeferre notices Grantaire’s back in his black jeans and green coat and feels a bubble of something odd in his chest. He wonders if Grantaire is still wearing Combeferre’s shirt beneath his coat.

The song ends with a smattering of applause and the hooting of the younger audience, while Grantaire dips his head humbly, sending smiles to the parents that step forward and tip him

Combeferre has one wrinkled ten note in his wallet. There’s an uncommon boldness in his step as he walks forward.

Grantaire’s crowd-pleasing smile melts into a gawk. Combeferre gives a quick wave, drops his money.

Grantaire recovers by laying a hand on his guitar strings. He spins back to his audience. “And that’s it for me, folks. Have a great holiday. Travel safe.”

A few of the kids whine, while more adults dart forward to drop coins into Grantaire’s case. Combeferre waits as Grantaire thanks each one, only walking closer when the last of them leave and Grantaire has bent down to gather up his earnings.

“You didn’t have to stop for me,” says Combeferre, stepping up to him.

Grantaire glances at him, smile coming quicker than the last them they met. “It’s Christmas. Easiest time in the year for an audience.”

“Still,” says Combeferre, guilt dragging on tongue. It’s odd watching Grantaire wrap up his percussion kit, sliding it into a case and into a backpack. Combeferre tries to remember if he saw Grantaire with a backpack before. He _knows_ he wouldn’t have missed the guitar.

“I was about due for a break anyway,” says Grantaire, clipping the guitar case and standing up. “Is your flight soon?”

“I have some time,” answers Combeferre, honestly. Valjean’s card sits heavy in his pocket. “I was hoping to talk to you anyway.”

“Yeah?” says Grantaire. “Me too. Come on. I’m buying you a coffee.” Combeferre protests immediately, but Grantaire just shakes his head. “I’m paying,” he says, sternly. “Besides, I owe you for the shirt.”

It’s reluctantly that Combeferre concedes. Grantaire walks into the airport confidently, head high, backpack over his shoulder and guitar in hand. Combeferre winces as they pass a security officer, but Grantaire walks straight ahead, a clear destination in mind, passing by the massive Christmas tree and piano in the center of the terminal until he reaches a little café.

Combeferre ends up sitting at a little table with Grantaire’s guitar as the busker walks up to the café counter to order, feeling guilt eating at him when he glimpses the prices. Pride is an important thing, Combeferre knows, but he wishes he hadn’t enticed Grantaire’s.

Grantaire slides back into the booth with a self-satisfied expression on his face, pushing a small, plain coffee (the least expensive thing on the menu Combeferre could find) across the table.

“I was wondering if I’d see you again,” says Grantaire. “You must really like your frequent flier miles. Is it work?”

Combeferre nods. He’s the least likely of the Amis to get in trouble over seas, being a bit more tight-lipped than either Enjolras or Courfeyrac, so he’s the one who gets sent to do most of their long-distant meetings.

“Do you recognize a lot of people coming through the airport?” he asks, curious.

Grantaire shrugs. “Not really. Business people all tend to look the same, you know.”

“And I don’t?” asks Combeferre.

“Well, the sweater vests are a bit off from the usual suits for one,” grins Grantaire. “Exactly how many of those things do you own?”

The tips of Combeferre’s ears heat. So he likes to be cozy – sue him. He glances down at what he’s wearing now, a pale blue sweater vest over a gray collared shirt, and shrugs helplessly. “Maybe twelve?”

Grantaire tips his head back and laughs. His hair has gotten longer since the last time Combeferre saw him, black curls skimming his chin.

“How are you, Grantaire?” Combeferre asks, leaning forward. “I was worried the last time I saw you. I shouldn’t have let you leave like that.”

“What – in a brand new shirt?” Grantaire teases, still smiling. “You really did save my ass, Combeferre. I would have been tossed out for sure, wandering around wet and dirty like that. Goodbye, warm airport.”

Combeferre’s ribs squeeze. Valjean’s card burns a whole in his pocket. He reaches for it, only for Grantaire to beat him to it, digging into his backpack and sliding a plastic bag over the table.

Combeferre finds his shirt and socks inside, pushing down the disappointment that pinches him.

“I washed them,” says Grantaire. “I was hoping I’d see you again so I could give it back to you.” He grins and lines crinkling around his eyes. “Fair warning, if it was a tad bit bigger I probably would have kept it.”

Combeferre grips the bag, pushing it back across the table. “You can. I mean, you don’t have to, of course. Thank you for taking the time to wash them. But you can keep them if you need to, if you want to.”

“Nah.” Grantaire ruefully pats his guitar case. “I’m mostly on a new gig now. I’m alright without it.”

Doubt still lingers in Combeferre, but he pulls the bag off the table. “I saw that,” he says, nodding at the guitar. “How long have you been busking?”

“Oh, er.” Color floods Grantaire’s face, pink crossing the crooked bridge of his nose. He picks at his coffee cup, staring down at his hands. His fingernails are broad and blunt. “A few years now. It’s just a side thing. Until I can find something better, you know?”

“I think it’s great,” says Combeferre. Something daring seizes him, something that feels like Courfeyrac surging through his body. He reaches out, catching Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire startles, eyes jerking up to meet Combeferre’s. “Really, Grantaire. I’m happy for you.”

“Yes, well. That’s just fucking – I mean, you really don’t need to be all – ”

Grantaire’s voice flounders. The pink on his face deepens to a bright red as his eyes dart everywhere but Combeferre’s face.

Combeferre releases Grantaire’s hand quickly. He hadn’t meant to do that. That definitely had _not_ been part of his plan.

“Listen, Grantaire. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Combeferre digs in his pocket, Valjean’s card digging into his palm. “I know a place where – ”

Grantaire cuts him off. “Shit, crap.”

His eyes fix on something over Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre turns around. Is it security? Has Grantaire been ratted out? He doesn’t see any one coming towards them. No. That isn’t right. There’s a woman near the Christmas dress, dressed in a black suit and a frown, staring directly at him.

At Grantaire.

Grantaire is already pushing up from the booth, slinging his backpack on. “I’m really sorry, Combeferre. I have to go.”

“Is that woman bothering you? I can help, Grantaire. Just tell me what you need.”

“It’s fine. Really,” says Grantaire quickly, but his smile is strained. He picks up his guitar case, eyes darting back to the woman. “I just really have to go.”

Combeferre fumbles for his pocket. “Let me just give this – ”

Grantaire steps back from the table, not looking at him. “Sorry. No time. Catch me on your return flight, yeah? I’ll be around.”

“Wait a minute, Grantaire.”

“Next time, I promise! Bye!”

Grantaire dashes out of the café, weaving through the terminal until the crowd quickly swallows him. Combeferre finds himself on his feet, almost about to give chase before ration catches up to him.

He sits back down, Valjean’s card sitting useless in his hand, staring at his cup of coffee.

Next time, Grantaire had said. It was likely some deep fault of Combeferre’s that had him holding onto those words. He steps out of the café with a secret rejoicing the corners of his lips.

 

*

 

His plane touches back down in Paris two days and two sleepless nights later. Combeferre feels warm despite the late hour, success pushing the weariness from his bones. He hears the cheerful keys of the piano filling the terminal with Christmas music as he rides the escalator to baggage claim.

He remembers Grantaire’s comment about good work for buskers during the holidays.

Grantaire - who had told Combeferre specifically to look for him.

Grantaire – who likely didn’t have anywhere to go for the holidays.

The piano notes spoil. Combeferre is glad to leave them as he steps out of the airport, cold night air biting into his skin. He shivers, pulling his coat closer to his body, and goes hunting down the sidewalk.

Twenty minutes later and there’s still no sign of Grantaire. Combeferre’s phone has filled with texts from Courfeyrac, asking if he’s left the airport yet, and Enjolras, asking if after the meeting.

He hasn’t updated either of them on his failure to get Valjean’s card to Grantaire. He’d planned to, but for some reason he wants to hoard interactions with Grantaire all to himself.

_For some reason._ Combeferre snorts at himself. He knows _exactly_ why his interactions with Grantaire feel private. He’s gone and contributed _intimacy_ to a few short meetings in an airport with a homeless man that he barely knows.

Enjolras is right. Combeferre needs to help Grantaire, not help himself to the man’s easy smile.

He steps back into the airport terminal. Maybe Grantaire had sought shelter from the cold?

In the late night, the airport seems emptier. A host of travellers stand bleary eyed and quiet around the baggage carousels. Most of the shops are closed down, metal gates pulled over dimmed window displays.

Grantaire’s eyes sweep over the shiny white wash of the airport, eyes catching on the giant Christmas tree in the middle of the terminal.

If Combeferre had no place to go for Christmas, that’s where he’d go too. He turns his feet and starts toward it.

He isn’t the only one. Families dot the benches around this part of the lobby, sleepy kids tucked under their parents’ arms. The business crowd hunch over their phones, sleek suitcases pulled in tight to their knees, expensive scarves around their throats.

The Christmas tree rises massive and grand out of the center of the room, trimmed in all red and gold sparkling lights. The wheels of Combeferre’s carry-on clack on the floor as he steps closer to it, scanning the rows of tired travellers around the room. The music stems from here. As Combeferre rounds the side of the tree he sees a raised platform and a grand piano.

He stops walking.

There at the piano sits Grantaire. His green coat is gone, black jeans and white shirt turned suddenly professional against the gleam of the piano. He rocks slowly in time to the music he plays, a gentle _White Christmas_ echoing through the airport.

Combeferre spies the woman in the suit standing at the foot of the dais, directing questions without a hint of alarm that Grantaire is just behind her.

Combeferre feels like the most obvious fool.

Grantaire – who is clearly _not_ homeless – who is clearly musician hired by the airport - doesn’t notice him standing there. Combeferre’s feet root to the spot.

The woman catches him looking and smiles. Her head tilts, as if inviting him closer.

Combeferre takes two steps backwards.

The woman keeps looking at him, smiling growing slightly. Her chin tilts up to say something to Grantaire at the piano.

_White Christmas_ stutters. Grantaire’s head whips up, meeting Combeferre’s eyes across the terminal. The song wavers into its right tempo again.

Grantaire’s expression shines surprised and welcoming. He nods his head, inviting Combeferre closer – easily, like Combeferre hasn’t been making a complete ass out of himself for the past two months.

The song is almost over, the final chorus ringing out through the terminal. Combeferre turns on his heel and runs.

Behind him, _White Christmas_ hits a series of sour notes that follow him all the way to the door.

 

*

 

New Years resounds with explosions in the sky. Their New York sponsors call for a final meeting.

Courfeyrac kisses his cheek. “Take as long as you need, Combeferre. You know I love to travel.”

Enjolras drives Courfeyrac to the airport. Combeferre sits at his desk in the office, away from the hustle and bustle of the holidays, and doesn’t move for weeks and weeks and weeks.

 

*

 

Valjean calls in early February. He has another bed open, if Combeferre still has that friend in need.

“Sorry,” says Combeferre. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

He doesn’t mention his failure with Grantaire to anyone but his very closest friends.

 

*

 

In March, he caves. March when the last snow melts from the streets and Combeferre’s shoes stop feelings so miserable.

He takes the train to the airport, no flight planned, just a quiet regret aching in his chest like a bruise.

He finds the woman in the suit standing in the lobby, directing the installation of a bouquet of yellow flowers. Her name is Floréal. She works in PR.

“The music is just seasonal,” says Floréal. “Grantaire left mid-January.”

“If you see him. Could you tell him I need to talk to him?” Combeferre asks.

Floreal doesn’t smile at him this time. She crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head. “Funny, that’s what he said about you the last time.”

Grantaire goes home; bruise deepening to something hard in his throat.

He calls Courfeyrac the next day. By the next week, he’s back in the airport, tickets in hand..

 

*

 

His desk in the office has begins to collect dust, along with his bed. There’s a familiar crick in his neck and a dryness to his eyes from so many red-eye flights.

 

*

 

By summer, he no longer walks up and down the terminal sidewalk, looking for Grantaire.

Floréal recognizes him by sight and doesn’t always scowl.

 

*

 

Combeferre steps out of the car, waving at Courfeyrac through the window. It’s chilly. A fresh autumn wind teases his breath away in white clouds while slush from last night’s snowfall seeps in through his dress shoes. His fingers wrap around a cup of coffee gratefully, as his other hand tugs his carry-on up the curb.

A crew hangs string lights by the main door to the terminal. Combeferre scans their ranks for a hint of Floréal, but doesn’t spy her. For a moment, his thoughts turn to last Christmas.

A shock of ice-cold water breaks his thoughts.

Combeferre sputters, stumbling back from the street. His cup slips from his hand, crashing on the sidewalk, splashing coffee on his pants.

Feet ahead of him, a couple studiously avoid his eyes as they climb out of a cab. Combeferre swears the cabbie meets his eyes in the rearview mirror before he peels away from the curb, tires sending slush flying through the air.

Wind cuts through the terminal sidewalk and Combeferre goes from cold to _freezing._ His coat is soaked through. His pants are dripping.

Combeferre mourns the nice, hot coffee now lying all over the pavement. He kneels down for the cup.

“What a motherfucker, right?”

Combeferre goes very, very still.

There are feet in front of him. Tennis shoes lead to a pair of black jeans. Up and up Combeferre’s gaze rises, until he finds himself staring at the bemused smile of Grantaire.

Grantaire holds out his hand.

No. Not his hand. Grantaire holds out a very wrinkled ten-euro note. Very deliberately, he tucks it into the coffee cup in Combeferre’s hand.

Combeferre knows his mouth is open, knows he’s gaping up at the man. He scrambles to his feet, shivering, yet brightly hot in the face.

“Grantaire! I – I – ”

“Can I help you?” says Grantaire, still smiling slightly. “I’ve got a shirt with your name on it, you know. Maybe some socks too.”

Combeferre feels as though his chest has cracked open, something soft and wanting crawling out. “I am _so_ sorry, Grantaire.”

“For which part?” Grantaire’s tone curls towards a sharp sarcasm. “Are you sorry for giving my money and clothes when you thought I was homeless or ditching me at the airport when you realized I wasn’t?”

Combeferre’s teeth are chattering. More than that, he feels cold, cold, cold all the way down to his bones. “I – I am _truly, deeply sorry_ , Grantaire,” he says.

For a moment Grantaire just looks at him, appearing every inch like he’s about to walk away. Then, just like that, the seriousness melts. A pink Combeferre recognizes rolls over Grantaire’s crooked nose.

“Shit,” coughs Grantaire. “I mean, _fuck._ This isn’t exactly how I imagined this would go.”

Combeferre looks up at him. “You imagined this?”

“Yeah, well, Floreal mentioned she’d seen you come around again,” says Grantaire, a hand in his hair. He nods his chin and that’s when Combeferre spies Floreal’s stern gaze staring out at them through the terminal windows. “I thought – _hey, maybe this year_. You know, like a moron. But, well, here you are.”

“H-Here I am,” Combeferre repeats.

Grantaire’s hand comes up and takes Combeferre’s, face dissolving into sympathy. “Shit. You’re freezing. Come on. I’ve got a spare set of clothes in the locker room. Learning from last year’s mistakes and all.”

“Y-Y-You don’t have to d-do this,” Combeferre manages. He can no longer feel his toes.

“No?” says Grantaire. “Well, guess this means you owe me then. How about dinner, when you get back? You, me, and whatever restaurant is still open after your ridiculous red-eye.”

He keeps Combeferre’s hand in his as he tugs him into the airport, warm air rushing over them. Outside, Floreal’s crew lets out a cheer as the first lights of Christmas come to life above the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes, this one was written quick and definitely needs another proof read.


End file.
